


chasing things that i thought weren't there

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e13 T.R.A.C.K.S., F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: The mission on the train doesn't go well.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Grant Ward
Comments: 14
Kudos: 136





	chasing things that i thought weren't there

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! Week SIXTEEN, y'all!! I can't believe I actually got it done.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

“Ward, are you in position?”

Static answers Coulson’s—somewhat rude, as he interrupted Jemma mid-sentence—question. Worry creases his brow.

“My comms are down,” he says lowly. “Are yours working?”

Jemma imagines she knows the answer to that (she’d hardly have heard static if her own comms weren’t malfunctioning), but gives it a go anyway. “Fitz? Skye?”

Again, only static answers her.

“Something’s wrong,” Coulson murmurs, and does a quick check of their surroundings. “Sit tight; I’m gonna go check the package.” He starts to stand, then pauses. “Do me a favor and never tell Ward I left you alone.”

“Ward?” She laughs—a bit too heartily, she fears, as it earns her a kindly skeptical look from Coulson. “Why would Ward care?”

“Please,” he says, moving past her into the aisle. “Everyone knows.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving Jemma to experience mortification in peace.

x _four months earlier_ x

The night after Ward was exposed to the berserker staff, Jemma stopped by his hotel room to check in on him one last time.

She expected to be met with a glare and perhaps even some snapping—she knew his temper had been fraying further by the second, and her concern for his health seemed to irritate him even in the best of times. Still, it was her responsibility both as team medic and as Ward’s friend to monitor his condition, so she did it anyway.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said as soon as the door opened, hoping to get ahead of any immediate reaction. “I promise not to take too much of your time. I just wanted to see how you were feeling and if there was anything—”

Not unexpectedly, she wasn’t allowed to finish her offer of help. _Very_ unexpectedly, it wasn’t his anger that cut her off. There was no looming or threatening or even a glare.

No, the interruption came in the form of his mouth covering hers.

Before Jemma quite knew what was happening, she was inside his room, being pressed back against the now-closed door as Ward’s hands slid up under her shirt. His mouth was hot and demanding against hers, his grip just shy of painfully tight, and there was something—

“Influence,” she gasped out, jerking away from him. (She knocked her head against the door in the process, but didn’t let it distract her from her sudden realization.) “You’re under—under the influence of—”

She couldn’t think. She could barely _breathe_. Ward was so close—close and warm and so nicely formed, with his lovely dark eyes fixed on her and his mouth curling up into something too knowing to be called a smile.

“The staff fucked with my temper,” he murmured, “that’s all. Doesn’t mean I’m not capable of consent.”

“But you, um— _oh_ —” His hands were still under her shirt, burning hot against her skin, and one of his thumbs was sweeping a very distracting pattern over her lower ribs. “Why would you want…”

Want _me_ , she meant to ask, but she realized in time how embarrassing a question that would be, and so let herself trail off into silence instead.

“You said I had too much adrenaline,” he reminded her, voice low. It sent a thrill down her spine and made her shudder. “This seems like a nice way to burn some of it off. Unless you don’t want…?”

As he spoke, he started to move away—to step back and remove his hands from her person and just, in general, retreat.

Jemma told her reservations to stuff it.

“I _do_ want,” she breathed, and yanked him back down into another kiss.

She never made it to her own room that night.

x _now_ x

Unfortunately, Coulson’s desire to keep his absence a secret from Ward is doomed to failure; not five minutes after he leaves, Ward enters the car.

True to Coulson’s prediction, he does _not_ look pleased.

“Where’s Coulson?” he demands, but Jemma is rather more concerned with the way one of his hands is covering his other arm. She can see blood peeking out from under his fingers.

“He went to the dining car to find the package,” she tells him absently, reaching for his arm. “You’ve been _hurt_ , let me take a look—”

“Not now,” he says, catching her hand in his. “Comms are down and we’ve been made. Go to the luggage car, lock yourself in with Fitz and Skye, and _don’t come out until I get you_. Got it?”

“Got it,” she agrees, a touch reluctantly. It’s not an optimal solution—leaving him to bleed all over the train while they split up—but she’s learnt better than to argue with him in the field. She may be team medic, but he’s team specialist; when they’re in danger, his orders take priority. “Be careful.”

“You too,” he says, and steps back to let her pass.

Perhaps it’s the way she squeezes his uninjured arm as she slips past him, or perhaps it’s that he spoke to her at all—but whatever did it, she’s obviously been made, too. She doesn’t make it to the next car.

Mere feet from the door, a man reaches up from his seat and catches her arm, wrenching her shoulder and pulling her off-balance in the process. The man sitting across from him—she has a brief second to recognize him as Carlo Mancini, the head of security for the team protecting Quinn’s package, whom she dumped her fake mother’s fake ashes all over earlier—shoots to his feet and grabs her, spinning them both to face Ward.

For a moment, they’re all frozen—Jemma, with an arm around her neck; Ward, his gun half-raised; and Mancini, holding Jemma in front of himself as a human shield.

Then one of the other passengers must realize what’s happening, because she starts screaming—followed swiftly by others. In seconds, the car has emptied, civilians fleeing in the face of the stand-off…or perhaps merely the guns on display.

None of them move as the passengers flee. Only once the door at the other end of the car has slammed shut behind the last of the civilians does Mancini speak.

…Not that it does Jemma any good, as it’s in Italian. But she presumes it’s some manner of order, as one of his men—the one that grabbed her in the first place—squeezes past them and then Ward. For a minute, she fears he’s going to hunt down those poor innocent civilians, but he only goes as far as the door.

The _click_ of a lock sliding into place is loud in the tense silence. So is the sound of Jemma swallowing.

x _two months earlier_ x

“Okay,” Ward said. “Welcome to Hostage 101.”

He sounded as serious as he looked, standing in front of the three of them with his arms crossed and his face set. Jemma couldn’t decide whether it was more intimidating or attractive; either way, she wasn’t about to interrupt him.

Skye, of course, had no such reservations. “Is there gonna be a test at the end of this class? Can it be open book?”

“We already took the hostage courses,” was Fitz’s contribution. He motioned between himself and Jemma. “Every year at the Academy and twice a year since.”

“Yes,” Ward said to Skye, “there is absolutely gonna be a test. It’s called _not dying in the field_.” His glare moved to Fitz. “And you’ve taken the hostage classes for lab-based scientists, not field scientists.”

She hated to add to his irritation—it’d been a very long month for all of them—but at that, Jemma simply _had_ to ask, “What’s the difference?”

“The assumptions,” Ward said. “Lab-based hostage classes assume that one, you’ve got a whole base’s worth of guards waiting in the wings to rescue you; and two, the enemy knows who you are and will wanna keep you alive for your brain. In the field, it’s different.”

He paused, surveying them seriously.

“In the field, you’ve got me,” he continued flatly. “Maybe May and Coulson, maybe not. I’m the only one on this team specifically assigned to protect you.”

“And you do a very good job,” Skye said, in that serious way of hers—the one that always managed to sound completely sarcastic. “We’re all impressed.”

“And grateful,” Jemma added. “Very grateful.”

Ward rolled his eyes. “The point is, there’s three of you and one of me. That makes my job a lot harder and I can’t guarantee you won’t be in a position to end up a hostage.”

“Comforting,” Fitz muttered.

“It shouldn’t be,” Ward said dryly. “You and Simmons are used to being the brightest minds in the room, and that’s protected you at SHIELD—if enemy agents ever stormed the Sandbox, you could trust they’d do their best not to kill you, because they’d want to use you. In the field, enemy agents might not know you from Adam.”

Jemma had never truly thought of it in those terms, but now that he pointed it out…it was a sobering prospect. She supposed she was as sheltered as she’d always been accused of.

Fitz must have agreed; his “oh” was very quiet. She knocked her elbow against his in encouragement.

“Right,” Skye said, sliding off the arm of the couch to sit on it properly. “So everyone’s in equal danger. Awesome.”

“That’s why Coulson’s asked me to give you three some tips,” Ward said. “We’ve got nine more days until he’s fit for duty, and we’re gonna use every one of them.”

“Okay, teach,” Skye said. “We’re all ears. Knock us out.”

His expression clearly communicated _don’t tempt me_ , but what he actually said was, “Okay. Scenario one: the classic stand-off. This assumes we’re in the field and the enemy agents already have their hands on you. They might be using you as a human shield in the hopes of escaping, or they might be threatening you to try to get something from the rest of us. Either way, step one is the same.”

Considering the topic, it was very inappropriate, but Jemma had to admit: Ward made for an absolutely gorgeous professor. She shifted in her seat a bit and tried not to let her mind wander to the hotel room they’d been sharing since the team was stood down after Coulson’s rescue.

“Step one,” Ward continued, “is to wait. Fight as much as you want in the lead up, but once the enemy’s got their hands on you, just wait. Give me a chance to assess the situation.”

x _now_ x

Remembering her lessons, Jemma remains still.

“So,” Ward says, “that was subtle.”

Mancini laughs. “Subtle is not our concern.”

“Then what is?” Ward asks.

“Her,” Mancini says, and Jemma flinches away from the touch of a cold barrel against her cheek. “The Clairvoyant sees everything, Agent Ward. He knows how attached you are to this woman. He sees how weak you are for her.”

Something passes over Ward’s face—something she can’t read at all. Surprise, perhaps? ( _Jemma_ is certainly surprised; she thinks, irrelevantly, that when Coulson said _everyone knows_ , she didn’t realize he meant the Clairvoyant, too.) Or confusion? (Surely _weak_ is a stretch—they’re only having sex, after all. Any emotions involved are purely on Jemma’s part and far too embarrassing to admit.)

Whatever it is, it’s gone in a blink, replaced with a very cold sort of calm.

“Does he?” he asks.

“He does,” Mancini confirms.

“And how does that connect to blowing all our covers in a train car full of people?” Ward asks.

The gun moves to Jemma’s chin, forcing her head back against Mancini’s shoulder. She closes her eyes against the tears building in them, attempting to keep her breathing steady. She trusts Ward. He’s got her out of worse situations than this—the Chitauri virus comes to mind.

It’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

But the barrel is so cold against her skin and all she can think about is her studies on gunshot wounds—about the path a bullet would carve through her skull at this angle.

Oh, god.

“The Clairvoyant wants to do you a favor,” Mancini says, “and free you of this weakness.”

Jemma can’t see Ward’s face, not with her head forced back as it is, but his silence is distinctly dangerous.

“And if I say no thanks?” he asks.

Mancini cocks the gun. Jemma’s breath shudders out of her. “I do it anyway.”

“Right,” Ward says. “One problem with that.”

The gun disappears from beneath her chin—because it’s aimed at Ward, Jemma sees when she looks down. He’s nearer than before; Mancini must have shifted his aim in response to Ward moving closer.

“You shoot her,” he says, terrifyingly calm, “and you lose your hostage. Once she’s dead, there’s nothing stopping me from killing you.”

“No?” Mancini asks. “You are outnumbered, Agent Ward.”

Ward’s eyes move past Jemma and Mancini. How many men were with him before? She can’t remember. Enough to pose a threat, she presumes.

“If you try to interfere,” Mancini says, “you die.”

“And if I let you do me this favor?” he asks.

Jemma feels Mancini shrug. “Then we go our separate ways. You are free of this attachment and no one ever has to know you stood by and let it happen.”

Ward’s eyes meet hers. His jaw shifts. His anger at the situation is plain as day on his face.

“Right,” he says, and shrugs his good shoulder. (He stopped putting pressure on his wound ages ago; she hates to think how badly it’s bleeding.) “In that case…sorry, Simmons. Nothing I can do.”

x _two months earlier_ x

“Okay, step one’s easy enough,” Skye said.

“With a gun to your head?” Ward asked. “Not really.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Skye said. “But say we got the waiting down. What’s next?”

“What’s next depends on how I assess the situation.” He paced back and forth, just a little. “There are a lot of variables, which is why this is more than a one-day course. But in this scenario, let’s assume I decide I can move. When I give you the signal, drop.”

Jemma traded a look with Fitz, and then with Skye. Neither of them looked any more enlightened than she felt.

“…Drop what?” she asked eventually.

“Drop _yourself_ ,” he clarified. “Just let yourself fall. If you haven’t been struggling to that point, it’ll take the enemy by surprise. He might try to catch you, either reflexively or in order to keep you as a shield. That’ll put him at a disadvantage and give me an opening to move.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Fitz asked.

“That’ll be the next scenario,” Ward said.

Fitz looked dissatisfied—he never did like waiting for answers—so Jemma hurried to speak before he could protest.

“What’s the signal?” she asked.

“An apology,” he said. “If I say there’s nothing I can do, make it sound like I’m gonna go along with the enemy, that’s your cue to drop.”

x _now_ x

Recognizing the signal, Jemma lets all her weight fall against the restraining arm Mancini has wrapped across her front. He swears and fumbles to steady her; she ducks her head, making herself smaller and giving Ward a wider opening to move.

It works exactly as well as it did when they practiced it—or so she assumes. In truth, it all becomes a bit chaotic at that point, with lots of shouting and the _crack_ of several gunshots. But Mancini’s grip falls away from her, and she’s able to get on the ground and scramble away from him without any obstacle beyond her own panic.

By the time she reaches Ward, silence has fallen in the car again. Risking a peek back, she sees Mancini and his men—three of them—are all on the ground, motionless. Ward is the only one still on his feet.

“You okay?” he asks, offering her a hand up.

Jemma doesn’t take it. Embarrassingly enough, she’s far too busy bursting into tears.

“Hey, hey,” Ward says, crouching down next to her. “No, sweetheart, you’re okay.”

“I am,” she chokes out through a sob, “I’m fine, I don’t know why I’m—this is absurd, I’m sorry, I’m—”

He shushes her and wraps an arm around her, pulling her in close.

“It’s fine,” he says. “You just got held hostage; it’s a pretty common reaction. Adrenaline, stress, fear—you’re just coming down from all those chemical reactions or whatever, right?” He presses a kiss to her hair; Jemma’s breath catches. “And I’d love to let you cry it out, but…”

“No,” she says, scrubbing at her face. “No, you’re right, we’ve no time. We need to get to the others.”

“Yeah.” The arm around her tightens. “Sounds like this whole thing was a trap. I’m betting we don’t wanna follow that package after all.”

“Quite,” she agrees, and lets him help her to her feet. She’s still crying, a bit, but at least she can stand. _And_ think, for perhaps the first time since Mancini grabbed her.

And now that she has time to do so—

“It doesn’t make sense,” she says.

He looks down at her, lovely face all creased in concern. “What doesn’t?”

“Why would the Clairvoyant set such an elaborate trap just to kill me?” she asks. “I was alone for a good few minutes before you came—why didn’t Mancini just kill me then? Why not kill me in the desert when we were rescuing Coulson a few months ago? And why want me dead at _all_? Not to sound arrogant, but you’d think I’d be a valuable asset to any mad scientist’s operations.”

Ward shakes his head as he tugs her into motion, heading for—she presumes—the dining car. (She absently hopes he brought his badge with him; the other passengers are sure to have raised the alarm, and they might be in a bit of trouble if they can’t identify themselves as SHIELD agents.)

“I don’t know,” he says lowly. “But I’m going to find out.”

He slows to a stop as they reach the door. He looks hesitant.

“What?” she asks.

“I just—” He stops, shakes his head, and tries again. “The Clairvoyant was right about one thing, you know. I _am_ attached to you.”

Jemma’s heart skips at least three beats. If she hadn’t already made such a fool of herself, the hope rising in her chest—which she _knows_ she can’t keep off her face—would be humiliating.

“Really?” she breathes.

“Really,” he says, and bends to kiss her sweetly—and swiftly. “It’s not just sex, Jemma. It hasn’t been for a while.”

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t—I had no—I mean, me too!” That doesn’t even make _sense_ , Jemma. “That is to say, I also…am not just having sex.”

Oh Lord, has nearly getting killed _completely_ addled her brain? This is awful.

Ward—should she start calling him Grant? _Can_ she start calling him Grant?—gives her a smile that verges on a grimace. Not unexpected for a man so clearly and consistently uncomfortable with emotions.

“We can talk about it later,” he says. “I just…wanted you to know.”

With that, he pushes through the door, gun held at the ready.

Despite the danger her team is still no doubt in, Jemma can’t help but smile as she follows him out.


End file.
